Flash Fiction I: Scratches on the Window

Yes, I know, I haven't been terribly active with my blog or my other social media sites. What can I say? It's summer and, even here at the monastery, we take things more relaxed.

As any of you who are familiar with my work already know, I'm not much given to flash fiction. I like to explore themes, characters, ideas, etc., and all that takes words. Lots and lots of words. But, I figured I'd give it a shot since it's a fun way to get out a few extra stories in no time at all. And since I still have a few more weeks of languid summer relaxation to get in, a few quick shots is all I might be able to do.

Enjoy!

Juan had been working from home for over a year and a half by now, thanks to the pandemic. As a psychotherapist, he'd found this quite difficult because he didn't have that same connection to his patients he did while sitting in the same room with them. So many of the nuanced non-verbals he depended upon were lost when doing therapy over a video connection but Juan was at least happy he could see their faces.

Halfway through a session with a particularly difficult patient, he heard scratching from the closed French doors to his office and a breathy whispered, "Dad."

Not only had Juan been working from home for over a year but he'd also been stuck there with his teenage daughter. She knew better than to interrupt him when he was in a session, especially one on video. Juan clenched his jaw in irritation at the shadowy figure he could see in his peripheral vision standing at the door.

He'd heard her leave earlier in the morning to get her morning shot of Starbucks but hadn't heard her return. Either way, he couldn't answer her and so waved her away.

"Dad!" she whispered from behind the glass, still scratching at the glass.

He waved her away again, this time more forcefully.

"Daaaaaad!" she whispered once more, her voice almost imploring him to pay attention to her. Juan shook his head, knowing his patient would assume it was in answer to what she'd said but also that his daughter would get the message.

She sighed in a long melancholic breath, one so plaintive and pained that Juan almost looked over to where she stood. Instead, he shook his head at the teenage angst he'd been pulled into.

Juan checked his phone after the session ended to find he'd missed a call from a local number he didn't recognize. He dialed the number and was surprised when a man whose voice he didn't know answered.

"Hello, this is Juan Martinez. Someone from this number called my cell phone."

A long pause, then, "Mister Martinez, this is Seargent Willis from the highway patrol. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but...your daughter was in a severe motor vehicle accident this morning, and --"

"Oh, my God!" Juan interrupted. "Is she alright? Has she been taken to a hospital? Where is she?"

"Mister Martinez," the officer said softly, "I don't how to say this, but...your daughter was killed in the accident. She's dead."